


Improbable

by Saucery



Category: Sherlock (TV), Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Addiction, Alternate Universe - Fusion, Alternate Universe - Psychics/Psionics, Alternate Universe - Werewolves Are Known, Crossover, Drama, Humor, M/M, Permanent Injury, Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, Psychic Stiles Stilinski, Psychological Trauma, Romance, Snark, Supernatural Elements, Werewolves
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-06
Updated: 2013-04-06
Packaged: 2017-12-07 15:22:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,428
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/750034
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saucery/pseuds/Saucery
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Derek is a soldier recently returned from Afghanistan. Stiles is the consulting detective he ends up cohabiting with.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Improbable

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to **mecurtin** for helping me with Americanisms!

* * *

 

"Well, if you're looking for someone to stay with," said Deaton, "I have someone in mind."

Derek didn't so much as lean on his cane; he wouldn't appear weak in front of Deaton. Deaton had this infuriating habit of worrying about people. "No, thanks. I'll figure something out."

"You won't get anywhere unless you learn to trust others," Deaton chastised him.

"I just returned from a goddamn war. I may have some difficulty trusting the human race."

"You can't survive without trust."

"You sound like my fucking shrink. Fine. Who is it?"

"The world's first consulting psychic detective."

Derek stared. "No."

"Derek - "

"Even if that was a joke. No."

"He's the one person I can think of that could tolerate you."

"Thanks," said Derek, sarcastically, "for the compliment."

"Don't mention it. Oh! Here's his card." Deaton handed over a dull rectangle of paper. It read: _Stiles Stilinski, Consulting Psychic Detective_.

"Even his name is ridiculous," Derek muttered.

"Yes," said Deaton, cheerfully. "It is, isn't it? But given your... ah, affliction - "

"It's called lycanthropy," said Derek.

"That." Deaton coughed. "He might be the perfect roommate for you."

"A madman and a werewolf," Derek said. "Sounds great."

 

*

Derek didn't call the freak Deaton had recommended to him until it was obvious that Derek had no other option. His lease was almost up, and he couldn't afford to renew it. The only way he _could_ afford to renew it would be by sharing his apartment, but the three individuals who'd expressed an interest so far were out of the question - one was a stoner with questionable hygiene, the other was a nymphomaniac widow that immediately began hitting on him, and the last was a speciesist. Given that Derek was a werewolf, he couldn't very well room with a speciesist.

Of course, Derek could always move in with someone else. Perhaps this was a sign. Perhaps Deaton's friend wouldn't be so bad. Perhaps -

Derek picked up the phone and dialed.

"'llo?" croaked a voice at the other end of the line, the way it would if its owner were just waking up.

Derek glanced at the clock. It was three in the afternoon. "Were you asleep?"

"Muh? Who - who is this?"

"Alan Deaton gave me your number. I'm Derek Hale. And you're..."

"Stiles," said the speaker, clearing his throat and seeming to wake up a little more. "Stilinski. The world's first - "

"Consulting psychic detective. I know. Are you looking for someone to share your place?"

"Yes?"

"Was that a question, or an answer?"

" _Yes_. Damn, you're a hardass."

"I'm ex-military."

"Wow. Bet you're built, huh?"

Derek paused. "Are you gay?" he asked. "Or bi?"

"Does it matter?"

"No," said Derek, grudgingly. No, it genuinely didn't, given how Derek himself was bi, but - "I just don't want a housemate, male or female, who could be attracted to me."

"Man, you must be _really_ built, to be so sure of your attractiveness. Either that, or you're a jackass. Which is it?"

Derek didn't dignify that with a response.

Stiles sighed. "For what it's worth, I'm only attracted to unattainable people. And you wouldn't be unattainable, as my housemate. Unless you were straight. Which my hunch is telling me you're not."

The guy's hunches were accurate. Maybe he was just a tiny bit psychic. "You're right."

"So there's no way I'll fall in lust with you. Relax. Oh, and I keep heads in jars. Are you okay with that?"

Heads in... "What?"

"There's also a skull. I call him Yorick. Like in _Hamlet_. He's sort of my best friend, except for my other best friend, who's a werewolf. Some might call me socially challenged."

Derek massaged his forehead. "Do you always talk this much?"

"Sure. Why not? Sometimes, I talk even when there's nobody around. Nobody but Yorick, I mean. That's another thing that, um. You might need to be okay with."

"Do you always sleep in the daytime?"

"If I can. With a nicotine patch to keep me company."

"You don't smoke, then."

"I never smoked. I just like the mini-high the patches give me."

Wonderful. The man was a nicotine addict, a blabbermouth and possibly delusional. On the other hand, he was friends with a werewolf. That meant he'd be all right with Derek's monthly transformations. "Is your house werewolf-friendly?"

"You're a werewolf, too? Cool. Yeah, I have a wolf-proof basement. I used to let Scott use it, during the full moons, but he's moved in with his girlfriend and they have their own place. Where they get up to funky sex that may or may not involve knotting. I mostly try not to think about it."

So, that sealed the deal. Stiles was the only person Derek had encountered, other than Deaton, to whom lycanthropy didn't seem to make a whit of difference. Derek was sick of people being terrified of him while pretending not to be; there didn't seem to be a hint of fear in Stiles, though. And Derek needed that. He was tired of being surrounded by the stench of fear, as soon as people found out what he was. Werewolves had been an accepted part of society for a generation, now, but some prejudices took longer than that to change. God alone knew what Derek would've done for work if werewolves hadn't been cleared to serve in the military. Derek had preferred going in for military service to putting up with disdainful or fearful bosses in a civilian career.

What did Stiles's friend do for a living?

Not that it mattered. Derek was injured and honorably discharged, and he'd have to find something to do to supplement his veterans' benefits. Finding a cheaper room to rent was just part of it.

"Fine," said Derek, at last. "I'll come over to check out your place. How about tomorrow?"

"Seriously?" Stiles sounded excited. "And you even spoke, like, whole sentences to me. Most people can't stand me for more than a couple of minutes."

Derek felt a twinge of foreboding, but ignored it. "What time should I drop by?"

"Anytime in the evening? I'll probably be asleep, before then."

Derek nestled the phone into the juncture of his neck and shoulder, and reached for a pen. "Address?"

"221B Beacon Street. There's a bus-stop nearby, in case you don't drive."

Derek couldn't drive with his bum leg, but that was beside the point. "Thanks. See you then."

"See you! It'll be awesome, I promise!"

Derek hung up. He had a headache. Hopefully, prolonged exposure to Stiles Stilinski wouldn't give him migraines.

 

*

Stiles's home turned out to be a duplex townhouse tucked in between two other identical townhouses. To Derek's surprise, it wasn't Stiles but a middle-aged woman who opened the front door.

"You must be Derek," she said, with a motherly smile. She was thin and delicate-looking and understatedly lovely, with smile-lines and frown-lines. The face of a well-lived life.

"Mrs. McCall," called a voice from upstairs, followed by the clattering of feet, "is that - oh, it is!"

A young man of no older than twenty-one barreled down the last few stairs, coming to a panting stop at the door. His hair was wild and his eyes had the sort of manic glitter that probably indicated the presence of a mood disorder. Derek had seen enough people with similar problems at Dr. Morrell's office, where he was forced to go for his PTSD.

"Hi!" Stiles grinned, and stuck out his hand. "Whoa, you weren't kidding about your attractiveness, huh?" 

Derek caught a whiff of Stiles's scent - a strange mixture of happiness and anxiety and low-grade arousal - and reflected again on whether it was a good idea to move in with a guy that might potentially be attracted to him. "I'm here to see the house," Derek said, flatly, because he wasn't about to react that to that pick-up line - if it _was_ a pick-up line. It may be an altogether absent-minded comment, given what Derek had seen of Stiles's personality so far.

"Sure, sure. This is Melissa McCall, by the way; she's Scott's mom. Scott's my best friend that I told you about." Stiles tilted his chin up and made a soft howling noise. "Aroo. The werewolf, y'know?"

"I'm told you're a werewolf, too," said Mrs. McCall to Derek, understandingly. There was something about her that reminded Derek of his own mother, for a moment, so strongly that he had to clutch at his cane to keep his balance.

"Yes, ma'am."

"Oh, no need to call me that - you'll make me feel old!" Mrs. McCall laughed. "I work as a nurse and have my own home; I just stop by every now and then, to make sure Stiles is eating all right." She smiled indulgently at Stiles. "I also own this house."

"You - " Derek blinked. "I see." No wonder someone as troublesome as Stiles had found a place, if it was through personal connections.

"I'll be going, now. You two settle the rent between yourselves, and let me know how it goes." Mrs. McCall patted Derek on the shoulder. "I'm not a very formal type of landlady, you'll find. Have fun, boys!"

So saying, Mrs. McCall vanished down the street. Derek watched her leave, feeling an odd sense of hollowness.

"She's amazing, right?" Stiles said, quietly. It was startling to hear that quietness from him. "Lives just one street down from me, in case you were wondering why she didn't catch a cab or something."

"Does she drop by often?"

"Eh, only when she thinks I haven't been eating properly."

"Which is often."

"You don't let things go, do you?"

"Why should I?"

Stiles studied him. "Huh. What about the things you _should_ let go of, though? Do you ever let go of them?"

It was a sharp question, a perceptive question - but Derek wasn't here to reminisce about his family, and how he had lost them, and how he could never, ever let go of any of them.

"Sorry," said Stiles. "I dunno where this stuff comes from, sometimes. Me and my motor-mouth." Stiles motioned him in. "Still interested in the house?"

Derek stamped his feet free of mud on the doormat before stepping inside. It was warm and homey, other than the faint smell of blood and formaldehyde that drifted down the stairs. "Are those the heads in jars I'm smelling?"

"Oh, yeah, forgot you'd be able to smell 'em. Is that a problem?"

"No," said Derek, slowly, "but where do you get them from?"

"From the morgue at Beacon Hills General, mostly. John Does. I use 'em for my casework. Also as conversation partners. It's surprising, the amount of talking you can get done with the dead. They like talking. It's pretty much all they _can_ do."

"You talk to them."

"Psychic, remember?"

Derek considered leaving, right then and there. But something drew him up the stairs and into the chaotic living room, which was filled with unending piles of paper and filing boxes that were clearly not being used to file anything, not to mention -

Yes, there was a skull.

On the mantelpiece.

"This is Yorick," said Stiles, affectionately. "He doesn't have anybody haunting him, unfortunately. But he's still great company, on account of being a good listener. You seem to be a good listener, too."

"I just don't say much."

"Heh. Reserving judgement, or just judging me silently?"

"A bit of both."

"I'm not that bad." Stiles huffed, running a hand through his hair. "Okay, maybe I'm _worse_. Sometimes. But I don't - I won't judge _you_. For anything. I've seen a lot of shit in my comparatively young life, and that's made me kind of accepting of people. So if you wanna wolf out for the heck of it or if you want me to chain you up before the full moon or if you wanna have steak that's extra-extra-extra rare, that's fine with me. Got it?"

Derek stood there, caught by the seriousness of Stiles's gaze, and how unexpected it was. There was no untruth to it. None. "Got it."

"Scott's like my brother, and he's a werewolf. Which means I know how to, um. Deal? Not that there's anything to deal with," Stiles added, hastily. "But I'm just saying. You share a home with me, you share it as an equal. I'm not going to go calling the Were Suppression Unit at the smallest sign of you getting fangy."

"That's a relief," Derek said, dryly. He was more in control of himself, as an Alpha, than some rogue Omega that went 'fangy' at the slightest provocation.

"Glad you think so. Here's the kitchen."

Derek was then given a whirlwind tour of the house, starting from the messy and full-of-heads-in-jars kitchen, to the decently-sized bedrooms, to the renovated bathroom. There were ash-drawn sigils placed regularly throughout the house, on random walls and doors and windows, as well as sprigs of herbs bound into homemade charms. All the signs of a practicing psychic, but they were subtle, the herbs' scent not overpowering but somehow cleansing, and Derek found himself relatively undisturbed by them. 

When the tour was over and they were back at the door, Stiles turned to him and asked, hopefully, "Do you like it?"

Derek let himself be still; let himself _think_. Finally, he asked a question of his own. "Why do you want to share the house?"

"Because, even with Mrs. McCall giving me massive discounts, I can't afford it on my own. That, and... um, I've been told that I, uh. Need company."

"To keep you sane?"

"To keep me from talking only to dead people, yeah. Scott was here, but then he moved out, and I've been looking for someone else, ever since. Speaking of, can I ask you about your leg? There's a black haze around it, from what I can see; it's not a natural wound, is it?"

"Wolfsbane bullet," said Derek, shortly. "Afghanistan."

"Oh," Stiles said. "Right. You would've healed, if it was just a normal injury. Sorry about that."

"Don't be sorry for something you didn't do." Derek hesitated, then said it. "I'll take the place."

"You _will_?" Stiles looked amazed. "Holy crap! I mean, welcome to your new abode! When do you wanna move in?"

"As soon as possible. Should we get the contract settled tomorrow, or - "

"Tomorrow." Stiles nodded vigorously. "Absolutely. When will you, um. When will you be over?"

"Same time as today. I'll bring my luggage."

"Done and done." Stiles grinned again. "I hope we get along."

"Same here," Derek said, fighting off another headache, and made his way out of the house.

 

* * *

 


End file.
